The day that I died, my life became infinitely more complicated. I remember vividly lying on a long metal table that was cold against my bare back thinking, 'really? Is this it?" I couldn't tell you how I died, one minute I was sitting with Jimmy and Kate in a coffee shop discussing the relative merits of getting a second muffin versus branching out into scones and then suddenly my eyes were opened by a man with a bright light that he shone into my eyes, blinding me.
"Don’t be alarmed." He told me as I tried to shrink away from his intimate, probing fingers at my neck. "You’re dead. But we’re going to take to you the orientation centre where they’ll explain it to you." I do remember that, I remember than vividly. I wanted to scream at him, make his fingers stop roving clinically over my body. I felt a sick nausea building in my stomach as I tried once more to move, but it was as if my body was thick, heavy and useless. Lifting my arms was like trying to move through a thick pool of treacle, impossible. And then suddenly I was being jostled, lifted and something was slipped over my body, my vision slowly blocked by twin curtains of black fabric that was zipped over my head. Which brings us back to the cold, metal table and the fact that I was inexplicably naked.